


The Twin Dilemma

by asparagusmama, BabyKlingon



Category: Inspector Morse (TV), Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen, Women of the Morse Universe Fanwork Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 17:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7370317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparagusmama/pseuds/asparagusmama, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyKlingon/pseuds/BabyKlingon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maitland is now a special consultant on serial killings and bizarre and ritual murders at New Scotland Yard. When she is sent to Cambridge to investigate a series of brutal killings she does not expect it to lead her back to Oxford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Slight warning for canon type descriptions of violent murders

The middle aged woman squared her shoulders as she stepped out of the lift and walked into the midst of a busy incident room in Cambridge’s CID’s main office, looking out of the window as she did so. Sadly there were no beautiful vistas of golden colleges or of green spaces of the Backs, just another sixties build office block and a more modern one tacked on next to it and a busy road.

Still, she hadn’t left London for the sightseeing.

She was a petite woman, her skin still relatively young and free of make-up except a little eye-liner and mascara, and was dressed in a smart pair of trousers and tailored jacket over a silk shirt of a pale blue and white ditzy flower print, open necked to show a neck that was rather more weathered. She wore her salt and pepper hair short and simple and easy to manage. On her ring finger of her left hand a simple silver commitment ring that pre-dated her recent civil partnership and postponed wedding. But her partner was an understanding woman, long used to the fact that her wife put her career first. After all, what she did was highly important. They had finally tied the knot, as it were, three months ago, once the arrests in Devon had been made. The honeymoon had been cut short for her to give evidence, though. She had only just finished in court a few days ago. Leanne had wanted the ceremony, she’d have been happy to pay the £10 fee and convert the civil partnership. They loved one and another and been committed to one another for almost three decades. What was a party and a bit of paper?

She pulled herself up to her full height and walked into the midst of the incident room, standing in front of the depressing too full large screen, showing the bodies of several young, white, dark haired, men. A tall, dark haired himself, ridiculously young, man turned and smiled grimly,

“I’m sorry. No one told me you were here. I’ve have sent someone to meet you.” He strode across the room from his inner office, holding out his hand.

“DCI Lemmie. Joe. Let me introduce my team. Guys!” he raised his voice, turning to the officers arranging around their desks and computers, following their actions... his voice was not too loud, but it carried. “Our expert from Scotland Yard is here.”

 

*

 

That had been two months ago now. Why had it taken so long? Why did they all have their preconceptions? Even herself? Last time she’d been to Oxford, she had argued about the assumption of a killer being a man with the SIO on that case, back in the eighties. God, she had been so young and naive then.

She missed Morse. They had kept up a correspondence until his death. Far too early, like many a good officer. Drink. Might as well be in action. It was the stress.

She opened the door of the interview room and walked in,

“Hi Hannah, I'm Siobhan.” Maitland said as she sat down.

The woman sitting at the desk snapped her head up and spat out with venom, “DCI Siobhan Caitlin Maitland, 62, wife of Leanne Rose Maitland-Jennings. Majored in crimes against woman went on to become metropolitan police consultant in serial killers and specialist crimes. Earns 35 grand a month.” The suspect then went back to looking down at the table, tracing patterns in the non-existent dust with her index finger.

DCI Maitland raised an eyebrow and sat back quickly and hurriedly. Trying and failing to hide her surprise and discomfort. “Wow, you certainly do your research!” 

Hannah refused look up again. Maitland looked towards the two-way mirror and shrugged.

“I have to. I want to get away with it. Wanted.” She shrugged. “Anyway. Adam will sack me if I don't get all my facts right.”

“Hannah, I know you’re confused, but I would like to take your statement officially... And I would like to ask you some questions. Is that ok?”

“It'll have to be.” 

Maitland shook her head leaning forward, “No Hannah, it'll only happen if you want it to. Ok?” 

Hannah nodded slightly and took a deep breath. “Right. Do you mind if we start from the beginning?”

“Fine.” Hannah moved suddenly forward, her forearms pressing into the table “Did you know my brother Julian died when we were 10? He was my twin, my other half. When he died it felt like half of me died that day.”

“I know-” 

“NO!” Hannah jumped forward again and pressed her face close to Siobhan's. The PC stood next to the door started to move forward, but Siobhan gestured for him to stand down. 

“No” she repeated. “No you don't, no one knows what that feels like.” She sat back with a thump. “Mum didn't understand. Adam?” she scoffed. “Adam doesn’t know what real emotion feels like.” She clasped her hands in her in her lap, withdrawn again. “Adam had never understood...

 

“When I was ten, my twin died...!”

Siobhan again asked herself how they could have been so slow? It was the one case that was to haunt her throughout her career and beyond. Hannah’s troubled eyes followed her throughout her sleep for a long time, and recurred at times of stress. Why, she could never explain, there had been more gory cases, more violent, cases, some would say, more disturbing cases. But this one, for Siobhan, was the one she couldn’t let go.

 

*

 

Just over two months previously, Siobhan Maitland had stood in front of the Assistant Commissioner in his office at the top of the New Scotland Yard building, holding his gaze. She was not keen on him, one could even come close to calling it an intense dislike, and she hated it when he tried all that macho crap on her.

“Six murders, same MO. They need your specialities...” he was saying

Maitland had raised an eyebrow. “Sir, please.” She sighed and sat down, asking, “Have you got the case files?”

“Yes,” he replied tersely, handing them over to her, a great fat bundle of brown and blue files with Cambridgeshire Constabulary’s log on them.

Maitland sighed deeply, “Right. When are they expecting me?”

“As soon as you can get there.”

She sighed again, more deeply, as she stood up. “Right.” She nodded to the twat of her superior officer and headed for the door. As she exited she muttered to herself. “There goes Lea's fifty-ninth!”

“Did you say something?” the Assistant Commissioner asked, curiously. 

“No sir. See you sir.” She nodded to him again and closed the door. Balancing the bundle against her chest one-handed she fumbled for her phone from her jacket pocket and dialled a number, “Hey Lea?” Just the sound of her wife’s voice relaxed her, though she felt sick at the thought of imparting yet more bad news. How many times had she let her down in twenty-seven years now?

“Hi sweetie, why are you ringing me at work?” Leanne was a secretary and reader for a literary agency in Highgate, a short tube ride from where they lived in Camden, 

“I’m sorry. It’s bad news again I'm afraid.”

Leanne sighed audibly on the phone. “Where are you off to now?”

Siobhan opened the top file, struggling to balance it on a raised knee and read for a few seconds before answering, “Cambridge.”

“Where I when to uni,” Leanne said sadly. “Wish I could get away and keep you company. I hate it when you’re alone for long in a hotel room, struggling with a case. You never eat or sleep.”

“I’m so sorry love. You know how it gets me. I’ve never not solved a case, have I?”

“No no! It's why I married you, saving the innocents by hard honest police work.”

“I am really so sorry.”

“Well there goes my idyllic lake district birthday...”

“Sorry!”

“Stop apologising darling!!!”

“So-“ Siobhan bit back the next sorry with a smile. As if Leanne could see the smile she laughed back down the phone, the asked practically, 

“When do they need you?”

“Well, the guv said as soon as poss so, I'm heading home to pack quickly.”

 

*

 

She liased the following morning with the SIO’s DS, one Lucy Waite, a chipper young woman, considering what was going on in Cambridge – another serial killer, two in fifteen years, for a small city in the quiet Fens, an improbably, impossible statistic. It wasn’t America, or even Midsomer, not even Oxford - which seemed to have a ridiculously improbably murder rate among its intelligentsia! - although it might like to be, but that was only in terms of academia. Better not let Leanne catch her thinking like that! To her, Oxford was the second rate place. What right had she to judge anyway, a redbrick girl like herself? It must be her old friend Morse’s influence.

They decided between them that taking the train was the best option, as she could read the case notes on the way down and leave immediately. She would let them know when she was arriving and DS Waite would arrange a car.

As it was, she took a taxi. Small force; big crime.

Six young men over the past six months had been killed. All students, all in separate colleges, reading different subjects, a full range of differences too, physics to philosophy, literature to theology, history to chemistry. Not on any sports or social club together. As far as anyone could tell, they didn’t know each other, had no friends or acquaintances in common, and did not frequent the same clubs or pubs or bars. They may have bought a sandwich for lunch once or twice from the same outlet or had a coffee of two in the same Starbucks, but that was all that could be uncovered towards any connection. And of course, all waiters, barristas and sandwich makers had been cleared.

The MO was identical. They had been drugged with Rohypnol, garrotted and then finally killed with a sharp implement by and upper thrust from the left side into the lung. Some had been already finished off by the garrotting and stabbed post mortem, mercifully. Others, poor boys, had bleed out or suffocated on their own blood.

The first victim has been Marcus Leicester, aged 23, a DPhil student in inorganic chemistry. He had been of a slight, slim build, with black hair, standing at 5’11”. He has rowed quite a bit it seemed, in the boat race two years previously, as an undergraduate. He had been drugged, garrotted and stabbed post mortem.

Kevin Swift had been 21, about to graduate in medieval literature. He had been athletic build, and played for the college and the university rugby teams. He had been 6’4”, and again, had short black hair. The MO was exactly the same.

Peter McCoy has been 27, a junior research Fellow in quantum physics. He had been far from the sporty type, a chubby, short chap of 5’4”, more at home with war-gaming and on-line gaming in his spare time, that on the field or river. Again, his death had been identical.

Danny Ironside was just 19, in his first year reading theology, sponsored by his church, everyone expected him to go on to the Methodist theological college. His physical appearance has been tall with a medium build, 5’11” and again, black hair. His death had been the same as the others.

Benjamin Brown had been 22, graduating in Modern History that year, having had a gap year travelling in Australia. He had been a gymnast when younger, and taught yoga to make a bit of money. He had been six foot tall and again, with white skin and very black short hair. Sadly though, the garrotting had only incapacitated him, and he had bleed out into his lung, struggling against the plastic coated wire around his neck. 

Forensics said it was probably the type that was commonly used as a washing line.

Justin Zarr was just 18, and had been sent down on a health sabbatical after one term of philosophy and theology. He was again one of the shorter victims, at 5’6” and had been seriously underweight, suffering from anorexia and other mental health issues. He had not been drugged not garrotted, simply stabbed. The investigating officer and the pathologist both agreed this might be likely due to his lack of strength and ability to fight back, that the murderer felt no need to incapacitate him first. 

The pathologists reports were detailed and exact, and Siobhan studied them intently for the rest of her journey, wanting to ignore the CID theories, until she had a chance to review all the evidence, and the body was always the best – dead men could speak.

The stabbed lung seemed to indicate some form of ritual, the pathologist, a Professor Graying Russell, had also suggested.   
She had idly, she remembered, wondered at such a strange name, and how the doctor felt about it. Morse never, ever, had revealed his name to her, and she had imagined it must have been an awful one, but she had never imagined something quite so bad as... a quick Google on her phone told her it was some kind of fresh water fish!

Later on she was to become close friends with the doctor, who lectured at Cambridge as well as worked for the Home Office as Cambridge’s consultant pathologist. The case was to haunt her too. Also, she later found out, she too had worked with Morse; the cantankerous, sexist old bugger had driven both to the top of their fields, just to spite him!

She had made initial notes on the train, and later, had gone over and over it with Lemmie, Waite, and their team. The previous serial killings had been (mostly) prostitutes, and elsewhere, victims of such criminals were mostly women. In cases were they were men, usually the perpetrator was gay, as with a well documented case long before her time. But the victims had been gay, or at least rent boys, which wasn’t always the same thing. But none of these victims were gay, or bisexual, or, it seemed from the many statements from families, friends, colleagues, and neighbours, not one had struggled at all with their sexual identity, nor every considered renting themselves to pay for their lifestyle of get themselves out of debt, and debt was a perennial problem with students.

Cambridge was floundering, and that was a fact, and Maitland, over the years, had gained somewhat of a reputation of coming in from New Scotland Yard and rescuing smaller constabularies from such horrific multiple murders. That night in the hotel, missing Leanne and their two cats, Tony and Gordon, her first meeting with the SIO and his team went around and around in her head. How she wished she could save them, as her, well earned, reputation, suggested, but after her initial look through, she was in the dark as they.

After the initial, formal introductions as their long-awaited expert, coffee and cake was produced – it was gone six and the whole team was still hard at it. DI Joe Lemmie, who really was an abnormally young DCI, had leapt up as a young DC returned with the box of cakes from what was obviously a well patronised bakery and offered her the first one, “This is for you, as, oh my God! You totally saved us!”

Maitland was a little taken back by this sudden flip to sounding like a schoolgirl, but a subtle glance around the team told her this was normal, and did not seem to interfere with any respect or authority. She selected a lemon poppy seed muffin and replied, “Glad to feel wanted!”

As the box of cakes was handed around the room, Joe Lemmie said again, “This is Chief Inspector Maitland, guys. She’s come to save our necks!”

At the time she had laughed and replied, “I think you're underestimating your ability,” and she later agreed with her reassessment, but she also, over the two months, felt she was letting them down, they were also seriously over-estimating her ability, that perhaps she was too. Apparently they had been requesting her help for over a month before she had been assigned.

A woman she took to be the DS, who looked nothing like the woman she had imagined on the phone, came in, shadowed by what looked to be a child, and came up to Joe and the cakes. The DS was a compact, strongly built woman with long, dark blonde hair, roughly screwed up into half a bun, half a ponytail, on the top of her head, and she had swung around the door frame and put a reassuring hand on her DCI’s shoulder, and intimate gesture, that Maitland wondered at, as she was to many touches, gestures and private smiles. Much later she was to realise how wrong she had been. 

Waite had impersonated Corporal Jones from Dad’s Army with her; “Don’t panic! Don’t panic!” Everyone in the office had laughed politely, as they had seen and heard it many times. But it broke the tension as much as the cakes. Waite turned then to Siobhan and held out her hand, “Hi. DS Lucy Waite. We spoke on the phone. Welcome.” And she smiled an enchanting smile. 

The other officer, the petite, young woman, with dark skin and an elfin hair cut introduced herself as DC Tia Warner. Although she looked to be about 12, obviously Siobhan knew she couldn’t be. The introductions were continued, until everyone in the office had been made known to Siobhan. She sat on a desk in front of the main incident board with her cake, and said, immediately taking charge,

“Right, why don’t you all fill me in? I’ve read all the reports, but I’d rather hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

That had been two months ago, and in that time Siobhan was floundering as much as the very young, and quite remarkably gifted, DCI Lemmie and his team. Three more young men had been killed, all black haired and white skinned, but all different physical types, all killed in exactly the same way. Gerry Toon, 26, Robert Potter, 24, Mark Rowell, 29, now all stared accusingly from the incident boards, all indictments at Siobhan’s failure to solve this in time.

There had been a lull for three weeks, a chance to review evidence and the trail to begin to grown cold, when there, on HOLMES 2, suddenly flagged a murder in Oxford, with exactly the same MO. Harry Sugg was 20, a student reading Maths up at Merton, only Siobhan’s height of 5’3”, but tough, he boxed for this college, and his death has been in exactly the same way – Rohypnol, garrotting, and an upper thrust under the rib cage to the left lung post mortem. Joe immediately made the decision to contract Oxford. While he did so, Maitland phoned Russell.

She and the pathologist had met first six weeks previously, at the crime scene, over the body of poor Gerry Toon,

“Professor Russell?” Joe had asked as they walked up to the grey-haired pathologist, knelt by the body. Her hair was pulled back from her face by a severe ponytail. She looked up. She was well groomed and made-up, yet chose not to dye her hair, like many a woman in their late fifties might. She was very attractive. A gold wedding ring showed through the white plastic gloves.

“Joe, she laughed gently, “How many times have I told you, you can call me Grayling.”

So the weird name didn’t bother her, then?

“Grayling Russell this is Siobhan Maitland, down from Scotland Yard, our expert,” Joe introduced her. 

Maitland smiled, and mouthed a hi. They didn’t have time for social niceties. Graying smiled back,

“Hello. Well it's another one by the College Ripper, Joe, that much is obvious; same M.O.”

Maitland had questioned, “College Ripper?”

“Haven't you read the paper?” Grayling asked, going on before Siobhan could say she tried not to, it might prejudice her conclusions if she read the wilder tabloid speculations, “That journalist Adam Westcott did another really lovely piece yesterday. Really tore into Joe and Lucy.”

“Yeah,” Joe said tersely, “Awful. Bloody awful. Suggested that we're just sitting on our laurels and waiting for another death...”

At the time, Siobhan had just said, “Oh?” and they had moved on to the pathologist’s initial findings and what forensics had found – bloody nothing as usual. This was what made it so hard, no fingerprints, DNA or clothing fibre was ever found at the scene apart from the victims, and often, whoever was the poor unfortunate sod that found the body.

Later, Westcott kept skirting close to being a suspect himself. A freelance journalist, his reports he sold both to local, national tabloid and broadsheet alike, all had far too many details, details that no one could know as they had not been released. They just never has enough to stick, and an internal investigation was launched along side the murders, as somewhere, the Chief Super and the ACC decided, there must be a press leak in the station or in forensics. 

Now, as she boarded the coach to Oxford she wondered is there would any reports of unreleased info from the Oxford crime scene too by this hack, Adam Westcott. She had interviewed him twice herself, and although circumstances, if not evidence, pointed to him, her gut told her he was probably innocent.

She was on a coach and not being driven as it was decided she would go alone initially, Oxford had yet to make the connection, of it they had, the senior SIO, had yet to request any pooling of resources, and the AC back in New Scotland Yard had advised her to tread gently until he did. “A bit of a control freak, or at least my old mucker Moody tells me. DCI Moody’s expecting you by the way, even if the arse leading the investigation isn’t!”


	2. Chapter 2

During her lengthy, three hour, boring, journey to Oxford from Cambridge, Maitland went over everything again and again in her head; the gender and sexuality of the victims, male and straight; the colouring of the victims, always very pale white skin but hair so dark it was almost black, but never died black; the physical type – varied. So it was the black hair and pale skin that had some significance? The choice of killing – to drug first! But how? And why? There was no pattern of the victims disappearing from parties and nightclubs, indeed one young man wished to be come a Methodist Minister, and from all accounts, led a very sober and quiet life. They were drugged so they might be the more easily killed, that much was obvious. So was the victim weak, somehow impaired, and needed to feel powerful? Well the same could be said for many serial killers and rapists too, inadequate men needing to feel strong by over-powering women. But these were other men! It wasn’t fitting any psychological profiling she had ever done or studied.

Joe had obviously spoken to the Oxford SIO while she was on route, as she got a text just before Bicester, to tell her that the SIO, an Inspector James Hathaway, had requested they work together, considering the similarities, and was sending an officer to meet her at the coach station.

Similarities! They were identical!

When she got off the station, a very tall, incredibly skinny, blond man with haunted eyes, dressed in a utilitarian black suit, white shirt and black tie, stepped forward to meet her.

“DCI Maitland? I’m DI James Hathaway. Welcome to Oxford.” He made an attempt at a terse smile. A whole trolley of luggage, rather than just bags, surrounded the haunted eyes. She suspected he’d not slept since the first Oxford murder.

She took the pro-offered hand with a firm handshake. “I must say I didn't expect the SIO the meet me...”

“Yes well... I thought you could fill me in as we walked... May I take your bags?”

“Oh, thank you,” Maitland handed over her small overnight bag. Normally such overt chivalry offended her feminist instincts, but she got the impression he was just being kind, rather than patronising. Despite that, or maybe because of that, she made some quip about the last time she had been here had been at the start of her career, assisting Morse. Had he heard of him?

Hathaway gave a slight, “M’m,” and an awkward half nod, as a reply, before just asking her to follow him with a blunt, “This way, please.”

To put the awkward beanpole of a man at his ease, she began to fill him in on the Cambridge’s cases for the rest of the walk to the station. She got the impression he wasn’t one for small talk.

 

*

 

Lizzie looked up from her desk as she heard the main office door open, and came out of the inner office she shared with her boss – both of them until a few weeks ago! She missed Lewis, not as much as her boss of course, not that he would ever admit it, but his pain of abandonment came off him in waves in unguarded moments. She loved to know what the history was between the two men, as somewhere along the way, Lewis had hurt Hathaway so much, he seemed damaged beyond repair, and yet, she didn’t get the impression that Lewis was never anything but kind, to colleagues and friends, certainly to victims and witnesses, even to most suspects. It left one option in her mind, certainly from all the brooding her boss did – they had been lovers, once upon a time! It seemed odd, perhaps Lewis had been lonely or experimenting, and although he seemed a little old not to know what he was. Perhaps he was bisexual. Who knew? Anyway, he was gone, with their most excellent pathologist, and in terms of this damn case, she wished Hobson were here!

Hathaway was with a short woman with dark brown short hair with more than a sprinkling of grey and white, dressed in a floral blouse under an expensive dark blue trouser suit. No make up except for the touch of eye-liner and a little lip-gloss, which was odd in a woman in her early sixties. Her wrinkles seemingly didn’t bother her, not that she had many. She looked at least ten years younger than the age given by her file. Lizzie had read all her accomplishments once DCI Lemmie had informed them that she was already on her way. Odd that, choosing not to drive.

“Sir,” she came forward.

“My sergeant,” and this he was beginning to be said with pride and not resentment, she noticed happily, “Lizzie Maddox. DCI Maitland, Lizzie. Can you get Gurdip in here, set it up? And is the pathologist about?”

“I asked her to stay in the station. I’ll let her know we’re ready,” Lizzie replied, pulling out her phone.

Meanwhile, Hathaway dumped Maitland’s bag on his chair in his office and, coming out, indicating a chair in front of the flat screen that was being pushed in from of the incident board. “Tea? Coffee?” he spat out, as if trained to ask such things but resenting it. We were obviously in a two steps backwards day regarding his social skills. Lizzie rolled her eyes and hung up.

“Water would be fine,” Maitland replied, although Lizzie suspected she would have preferred something else; it was a long coach ride, after all. Odd, there being no direct train or faster route between the two university towns.

“I’ll get you a drink Ma’am. Tea?”

“That’s kind, thank you.”

Lizzie smiled, “I’ll see if I can rustle up a couple of biscuits too.”

Five minutes later they were all – all of Hathaway’s team, a couple of uniform, the tech, and Maitland – assembled around the large flat screen, as Lemmie’s face appeared, half their room in the box in the right corner. As the connection went up, a young skinny Asian woman in a hijab, jeans and tee shirt, clutching a brace of blue files and an apple, slid through the door and parked herself on a desk at the back.

“Siobhan, glad to see you. Professor Russell is driving down this evening. She’s been talking to a Dr. Gulum?”

“Um, yes, that’s me,” the young woman at the back replied, around a mouthful of apple, raising her hand slightly and dropping the files, scattering them on the floor. She looked down, momentarily startled, and then went on, “I thought we could do with Professor Russell’s input. She’s such a forensic pathology expert, one of the best in the country!”

Hathaway’s head snapped round to glare, “Why wasn’t I told?”

Like Lizzie, the new pathologist was used to Hathaway’s rudeness and took it for what it was, social awkwardness and possibly covering up depression, and just shrugged, “Not had time. Since we’re working together, it didn’t seem a problem.”

Maitland watched Lemmie patiently wait for this little local outburst to finish.

“Right,” he said, “can we focus. Firstly, before I hand over to DCI Maitland to fill you all in – Siobhan, it’s Westcott, he’s in Oxford, Lucy found that out an hour ago. Has been since just after our last murder. Not only that, the latest on-line reports for the Independent have details I’m not sure if Oxford have released?”

“What’s this?” Hathaway asked.

“One thing at a time, I know Siobhan will fill you all in. But can you tell me Inspector, did you release details of the Maori tattoos and the green glass surfer necklace that had tangled with the wire used to garrotte and broken into his neck?”

As suspected on the previous murders, it was the kind of plastic wire used for washing lines. Or, in this case, a child’s cheap skipping rope with brightly coloured plastic handles.

“No. We did not. What is this? Do we have a suspect?”

“I’ll leave that for Chief Inspector Maitland,” Lemmie said, his eyes narrowing, emphasising the Chief. He could tell this Inspector Hathaway was a dick, Siobhan decided. She was far more open-minded; she’d give him a full day before she would make up her mind. After all, she respected Joe Lemmie a lot now, after working closely with him for two months, and he looked about nineteen and would squeal like a girl when excited, but she’d learnt to see past that, he was a fine detective and police officer, and a better leader of people than many a SIO, inspiring and not ordering and relying just on rank and convention.

The call came in that another body with the same MO had just been found in a Christchurch College student accommodation block on the Abingdon Road, mere minutes from the police station. Siobhan rode with Lizzie Maddox, in her car, surprised that the DS and DI seemed to stick to their own cars as a routine. Wouldn’t it be better to work things through as they travelled?

 

*

“He’s in his own room?” Hathaway observed, “Not outside or in hotel room. This been seen before, hasn’t it?”

“In all but three, yes.”

“Dead no more than two hours,” Gulum said, standing. “Sir, I’d like to leave the body until Professor Russell arrives.”

He gave his awkward not again. “Fine. Yes.”

“Good idea Raheema,” Lizzie added. Hathaway glared at her, “I’ll go rally the troops with door to door,” she said, walking away.

On the way over, Siobhan had asked Lizzie about her inspector’s awkwardness, and she had seemed glad of a chance to vent and replied he had been more awful when she first was assigned to him, indeed, he hadn’t been able to keep a sergeant until her, and she’d been on the verge of quitting when his old boss came out of retirement as a consultant and he seemed to get better. Since then she’d seen through the awkwardness a bit, and had learnt from Inspector Lewis how to ease things. Things had got worse since he’d taken a sabbatical and gone to New Zealand with his girlfriend.

Naturally, Siobhan wanted to know all about Robbie and his new girlfriend. She’d not heard from him since Val had died, and she had heard from a mutual colleague that he had coped very badly, and been transferred on an exchange programme to the British Virgin islands to get him out of the way, to see if it sorted his head out a bit.

Watching Hathaway now, at the crime scene, she could see his eyes were taking in everything, mentally taking pictures as much as the forensic photographer was, looking for the slightest piece of evidence. He suddenly stepped forward and lifted the twisted necklace from the victim’s neck. It was a blue soapstone cross on a black cord.

“Let’s release the details that he had a necklace that was tangled in the garrotting wire again, but not mention that it is a cross.”

“Sir,” Lizzie replied from the door, back from getting door to door started, and tapped out something on her tablet.

 

*

 

Much, much later that night, she and Grayling were checked into The Head of the River, practically nest door to St Aldates Police Station, while Joe, Lucy and Tia headed back to Cambridge to continue with there investigations. Clearance was given from Scotland Yard and from the Home Office, Ministry of Justice, and Grayling’s own college – she mostly just lectured in forensic pathology, but acted as a consultant pathologist on more complex cases. She too specialised in serial and ritual killings. Graying had spend an hour on the phone to her husband and then invited her to join herself and Dr Raheema Gulum for dinner, where they were going to discuss the bodies and scenes in more detail. Siobhan declined, and had intended room service and an early night, but she couldn’t settle, so after a stroll in Christchurch Meadow she went back to the station, intending to work through the night.

She wasn’t alone. When she got to the office door she could see the hunch of Hathaway’s shoulders over his desk. He had taken off his jacket and tie and ruffled up his short curls by running his fingers through them. He looked younger and more vulnerable that way. She suspected he didn’t want company, so she chose a desk and workstation as far from his inner office as possible and logged in, taking out her notebook and favourite pen from her bag. His door was open though, so she hard the chime of a Skype call.

He ignored it.

He ignored it another time.

“Robbie?” he snarled eventually.

“Busy lad?”

“We have a serial killer, in case you don’t keep up with British news anymore.”

“Aye, I do. Besides, I’ve been told by three separate people – well, two, Laura’s in the loop too.”

“Her locum.”

“Was her student.”

“Oh. And I suppose Lizzie is moaning behind my back again.”

“If you mean she’s worried whether you’ve slept or eaten anything since the first body in Oxford, then yeah. I don’t have the details, James; no one is going to leak anything to anyone, besides your team is as tight as a drum. And killings like that, well, I do still watch BBC World for me news and read on line newspapers.”

“On line. Right.”

“Besides, Grayling is a good friend of mine.”

“Oh.”

“Not that she said anything mind. Just that you’re a bigger arse than Morse ever was.”

“What?”

“I said you don’t need to be charming, you don’t want to get into anyone’s knickers. Is that a snort I hear? A smile? Go home James. Shower and sleep. At least shower and change. I can smell you from here.”

“It’s none of your business, Robert, how I look after myself, is it?”

God, he sounded catty. Siobhan couldn’t help herself; she got up and half knocked on his door, walking straight in, before he could hang up.

“Sorry, Hathaway, I just wanted to...” she faked, before interrupting herself, “Is that Robbie Lewis? Oh my God! How have you been?”

“Siobhan Maitland? Is that you? How are you? I’m so sorry I lost contact. How’s Leanne? I mean, you are still...”

“Married now.”

“Congratulations! Sorry, James, but this is the person I told you about, expert in crimes against women when such things were not done, not taken seriously. Banged a few sexist heads together, back then, eh?”

“Don’t mind me. I’ll just leave you to your reunion then Robert,” Hathaway said.

“Go home. Eat. Sleep. Wash. Clean clothes. Don’t burn yourself out love.”

At the ‘love’ a pink blush spread over his pale cheeks. He looked gutted too, as if he’d been hit. He nodded at the web cam. “Okay. Bye Robbie. See you in the morning Chief Inspector.”

“Ah lass, I made a terrible mistake with that one, I can tell you,” Robbie said. “But tell me everything, you and Leanne, your career, any kids?”


	3. Chapter 3

The following morning the Oxford Mail and the Daily Mirror both came out with publishing details that the necklace had again been tangled in the garrotting wire, that it was the second time the murder weapon had been recovered, and asking was the murderer getting sloppy? Also mentioned, was the fact it was a blue soap stone cross and the victim, Tim Smith, had been heavily involved in St Aldates Church. Hathaway immediately called for his arrest.

Meanwhile, some DNA had finally been recovered from the last Cambridge crime scene, or rather the body, and excited, Joe Lemmie rushed to Oxford to share the good news and see if Russell could chase Oxford forensics on the two Oxford bodies, as the murderer could finally be getting sloppy.

On his way, Joe Lemmie tried to call Hathaway four times, but each time, the call went straight to voicemail. It was the same with DCI Siobhan Maitland. When he tried the main Oxford CID a young officer informed him Inspector Hathaway was interviewing a suspect and gave him DS Maddox’s number, hanging up immediately, without giving him a chance to find out who was being interviewed.

Dammit, was there some competition going on now no one had made him aware of, who would solve the serial killing, Oxford or Cambridge? What happened to teamwork? It felt so bloody Oxbridge!

Joe put his foot down.

 

*

 

Meanwhile, in St Aldates station in Oxford city centre, Hathaway was interviewing the freelance journalist, Adam Westcott, with Hooper leaning on the back wall, trying to look intimidating as posh boy went through the same questions, over and over. He was good, this one, faking confusion and innocent well. DCI Maitland was in the side room, monitoring on the video feed as well as watching through the mirror. She trusted the immediacy of first impressions, not fed through a camera. She had interviewed him twice already and got nowhere. She suspected Hathaway wouldn’t either.

Just then Maddox rushed into the interview room without knocking. Hathaway turned to look at Lizzie by the door, annoyed,

“Sergeant!” he began.

Lizzie ignored him and burst out, “Sir? The SIO in Cambridge wants to talk to you, he says you aren’t answering your phone!”

“Well, that’s because I’m interviewing the suspect!”   
Adam: Westcott stood up and intervened; passionately yelling “I’m not a suspect!!! I-”

Hooper took a step forward as Hathaway huffed out sarcastically, “Shush!” He turned to Maddox and demanded, “What? Lizzie I really don't want any more deaths on my conscience! I need him to confess!”

Lizzie met his gaze, she understood what he was saying, but held his gaze and said slowly and calmly, with emphasis, “Sir, I really think you need to hear this.”

With an angry sigh Hathaway snatched the phone away from his sergeant, and putting it to his ear he snapped, “What?”

On the car phone Joe Lemmie muttered, “Thank God, at last. Hello,” he said more firmly, “Is this DI Hathaway?”

“Yes, what do you want?”

“I have some information for you; SOCO came up trumps, we've got a partial print, it's a close match to Westcott, we also got some DNA off Mark Rowell, it matches Hannah Westcott perfectly-”

“Right!” Hathaway replied quickly, not really hearing anything beyond Westcott and DNA, “Okay. Thanks for your help, I'll go use this information in my interview,” and he hung up and handed the phone back to his sergeant

On the other end of the line, in his car, Joe Lemmie was left hanging, unable to finish giving the vital information. “Wait! Hathaway? Hathaway! HANNAH Westcott!!!! DAMN!!!!!!!!!!!”

He turned to Tia, who was driving. “Tia? How long will it take to get to Oxford?”

“Still almost two hours? Thereabouts? We’ve only just cleared Cambridge, and the traffic on a Friday evening...”

“Shit and bugger! With blues and twos?”

“An hour? It depends if we get clearance...”

“Sod clearance, it's Hannah Westcott, and DI Hathaway isn't listening!!! I need to stop her before she kills again! She’s obviously speeding up her killings now she’s in Oxford!”

“Okay. On your say so. Sir,” Tia added, before putting her toe down and switching on the lights and siren.

“I’ll get on to Lucy, see if she’d found Hannah’s whereabouts yet.”

 

*

 

As they approached Oxford, coming in towards the Banbury Road turning, Joe found that Maddox was no longer answering her phone either, nor was anyone in CID. He hoped that didn’t mean a third Oxford killing. He made a fast decision to go through to the hotel Hannah Westcott was apparently staying, probably unbeknown to her brother, who was checked in to another hotel entirely. The hotel was an expensive one, just sound of Wheatley, on the M40 junction.

“If only we’d known, we could have joined the motorway at Bicester and made time.”

“Or come through Aylesbury, but I was worried about the traffic, should I go straight to the hotel, Sir?”

“Good idea, Tia,” Joe said trying the phones again. It was amazing how in tune they had always been with each other, right back to when they had first met, when Tia had been uniform and he had just been promoted and arrived in Cambridge, strengthening once they worked with one another when she joined CID. He wondered if she had even noticed it, or thought nothing of it. She was so beautiful, too.

As Tia continued to drive on the A40 part of the Oxford ring road towards the hotel, an almighty crack of thunder boomed, followed by a bright flash of lightening, and the rain that had been spitting and drizzling on and off all day turned into a downpour of heavy, splattering, sheeting rain.

 

*

 

Joe and Tia ran quickly from the car park to the reception in the torrential rain, getting almost soaked to the skin in those few seconds. Pushing his brown floppy fringe out of his eyes, Joe went up to the reception desk and produced his warrant card.

“DCI Lemmie, Cambridge Police.”

The young woman gaped.

“I just need you to answer as discreetly as possible...”

The reception smiled awkwardly and nodded.

“No one is in danger, I can assure you, I just need to find someone who is helping us with on going inquiries.”

She nodded again, “This Cambridge college killer?” she asked quietly, in a faint Romanian accent.

“I can’t possible comment on that. I just need to talk to Hannah Westcott. Could you confirm whether she has checked in for me?”

The young woman tapped at her keyboard, “Let me just see for you Sir.” She looked up. “Oh yes, here. Hannah Westcott, checked in three days ago, due out...” she clicked her mouse, “tomorrow.” She looked up.

“Can you tell if she’s in?”

The reception scanned the screen, clicked the mouse a couple of times, and then looked up. “Well, she used her key card at 0404 this morning to let herself in, and seems to have left again at 0947 this morning and hasn’t returned yet. Is that any help? I can speak to my colleague who was on this morning, to see if she asked us to order a taxi. She doesn’t have a car, I can see here.”

“No, that’s fine. We may need that info in a bit, but I’m sure your morning colleague may be sleeping. But can you tell me her room number?”

Another click on the mouse. The young reception was over her initial chock and fear and appeared to be enjoying herself. “Room 403.”

Joe smiled his most winning smile, “Okay. Thank you. Do you mind letting us into her room?” Tia, standing behind him, could see he had his fingers crossed behind his back. She hoped too that the reception wouldn’t want to call the manager or ask for a warrant. Luckily, she did neither. Instead, she replied,

“Uh... sure,” and got up and put a 'be right back' notice up in front of the reception desk and said, walking towards the life, “Please, come with me.”

Before he followed her, Joe turned to Tia and hurriedly said, “I need you to go get back up, talk to Siobhan, explain! Get that bloody DI to listen. Remember she's in room 403.”

“Yes sir, be safe though.”

Joe grinned, “Always,” he said, winking.

Tia blushed slightly, and replied, “Sir.”

Joe walked up to the lifts, calling over his shoulder to Tia, “Good luck. See ya.” 

The receptionist unlocked the door with her passkey and they walked inside. Joe turned to her, “Right, could you go stand by the door and tell me if she comes in please?”

She nodded, obviously thrilled to be helping in a police investigation, and convinced, despite his denial, he was connected to catching the ‘college ripper’ – after all, why else would a Cambridge officer be in Oxfordshire? “Of course,” she said, trying not to smile, and went out into the corridor to stand by the door. 

Joe thanked her absently as she did so, pulling on some scene gloves from his pocket. He looked though Hannah’s belongings, all unpacked and neatly put away. He looked though her empty suitcase, feeling in the lining, as well as all the pockets of her clothing, rifling through her neatly unpacked pile of underwear and tops, before looking under the pillows and bedding and finally going into the bathroom to look through her toiletries. Behind the bathroom door he noticed a second, larger suitcase, standing upright. He took it back to the main room and lifted it to the bed. Empty. But again, he felt around it, until he felt a lump in the lining, and hurriedly ripping it open he found one white bunny-suit, gloves and overshoes, together with one facemask.

“Bingo!” Joe muttered to himself, taking out his phone and photographing the lining of the suitcase and all he found. He went back in the bathroom, as something had been bothering. Behind the shower curtain he found a drawstring Hessian line bag, the kind used for laundry. He opened it and immediately saw a blood stained rag. He quickly bagged it with a triumphant, ‘Hah!”, bagged it into an evidence bag, also pulled from his pocket.

He was savouring his moment of triumph when the young receptions rushed back into the room.

“Hello? Hello Sir?

Jo came out of the bathroom, remembering to hold the bloody evidence his back so not to upset the young lady.

“Everything okay?”

“I'm sorry officer but I need to go, there's an incident in reception. I need to sort it out.”

Joe nodded and smiled, thinking of all the incriminating evidence he had, although without a warrant might be a problem, so he ought to put everything back and get hold of Tia to liase to get on... “Of course,” he said to her, “thank you for your help.”

As she left hurriedly, closing the door behind her, Joe goes up to the paperwork and laptop on her desk, switching it on. There was no password or encryptions at all, just folders marked with simple titles, many beginning, ‘Research for Adam’ followed by a politician’s name, or a sports event, or a town or business. He clicked on the one marked ‘Killings’ and scrolled down. It was all there, all the information from Adam’s articles that had not been released in press statements. Why didn’t he shut tell them his sister was doing his research?

Pride, he supposed. They were quite a double act, she did the research and the hard graft, and he prettied it up with nice words and got the by-line and the kudos, and no doubt the money.

While Joe was engrossed with all the details of the murders, he failed to here the click of the door key, did not hear someone creep up behind him, and heard nothing again for a long time as Hannah Westcott smashed her boot on the back of his head and he crumbled down to the floor, sliding of the chair, unconscious.

 

*

 

Oxford CID had been difficult on the phone, and claimed she didn’t have the authority, so Tia had given up and driven straight to the station. Rush hour on a Friday night made navigating difficult, the storm and flash flooding once she got down Headington Hill, made it even worse, and not being in the Oxfordshire force, she had to follow the traffic the long way around rather than drive straight up the High Street. Once she got to the desk, house ever, her ID let her through, but getting someone to listen, and finding DCI Maitland, proved more difficult. Being a Friday meant that civilian staff were knocking off earlier, with that happy Friday feeling, and a shift change seemed to be going on with uniform. Everyone knew that DI Hathaway, his sergeant, and the visiting expert from Scotland Yard were interviewing, but no one could give her the room number. She had no mobile signal, she kept trying all three numbers, but her phone had no connection. She wondered if the storm had knocked down a cell. Suddenly she saw Maitland at the end of a corridor, and hurried pushed past a group of uniformed officers about to start their shift, laughing and joshing with each other.

“Chief Inspector Maitland!”

Siobhan instantly looked up and came up to Tia, touching her elbow. “Tia, what are you doing here? I thought you were back in Cambridge?”

Tia was flustered by now, what with the storm, the traffic, her boss’ irregular, non procedural behaviour, she forgot for a moment why she was there, desperate to get back to the hotel and cover Joe’s back. “You have to make DI Hathaway listen!” she puffed out, remembering the DNA fragment and partial print Cambridge had uncovered.

Siobhan kept hold of Tia’s elbow and looked into her eyes and instructed, “DC Warner. Calm down and explain. Now, deep breathe, then begin.”

 

*

 

Meanwhile, Hathaway had been questioning Adam Westcott for hours, without a break. Adam’s solicitor had requested two comfort breaks, and Maddox had replaced Hooper, but Hathaway had merely paced, thinking aloud at DCI Maitland during the two breaks, he’d not had so much as a cup of tea or glass of water himself for most of the day.

“Mr Westcott, I will ask the question again,” he began yet again. “Where were you on the 25 of November 2015?”

“I told you I was in my hotel room writing my article!” Westcott was weary, he’d been giving the same answers all day, as he had in Cambridge five times – well, the answers were slightly different, but the truth of the matter was, he was not with the victim, killing him. He was beginning to think he was going to be fitted up anyway. He was losing all hope.

Hathaway, meanwhile, stood up sharply kicking his chair away, and leant forward on the table with a bang. Adam flinched.

“Mr Westcott, if you lie to me again I will make you regret it.”

Adam looked at his solicitor, worried, it was as he was beginning to fear. His solicitor raised his hand to protest, but DS Maddox had already pushed herself away from the wall where she'd been leaning and was speaking softly to Hathaway, “Sir, I think you should remove yourself from this situation.”

The solicitor nodded his thanks in the sergeant’s direction.

“I'm fine.”

“I don't think so, Sir,” Maddox said firmly.

“I concur,” added the solicitor, “and I will be making a formal complaint to your Superintendent if you don’t calm down Inspector.”

Hathaway looked from Lizzie to the solicitor and then glared at Adam and spat out through gritted teeth, “I am not leaving, this man has killed 12 young men, he has to be stopped and I am the one to do it.” he took another step forward towards Adam, “He will confess.”

Lizzie put her hand to his back, between his thin shoulder blades. He flinched, she knew he would, he was not great on being touched, but this called for it. “Sir,” she said firmly. “You are about to –” 

Just then there was a kuffule outside the door, and Tia burst in. “Sir!” 

“DC... Warner? What are you doing here?” Lizzie asked, confused.

“You have to listen to me! We’ve been trying to get hold of you all day. It’s either been phones ignored, or prats in your office, and now the phones are down! It's Hannah Westcott! We found a partial print on a beer bottle near Gerry Toon's body. We found a teney bit of DNA on Mark Rowell's arm-”

Hathaway looked confused, “But your DI told me-”

“What the –” Adam also demanded, standing up and leaning over the table towards the police officers. His solicitor put a warning hand on his arm. He sat back down reluctantly, hanging his head. He should have realised, all those details, the victims hair colouring... she promised him she was taking all her meds and still seeing her counsellor..,

“Listen to me! Hannah Westcott!” Tia knew she should have added sir, but why was he still interviewing Adam when they could be getting a warrant for Hannah’s hotel room and then her boss wouldn’t have had to cross the line! He could have waited at the bar for back-up and made the arrest and then searched for further evidence. 

“Who!?” Hathaway demanded with a frustrate snap.

“Hannah, his sister!” Tia pointed to Adam. She went to the table and sat opposite Adam. “And you don't have a proper alibi for any of the murders because you were moonlighting at your brothel... weren't you?”   
“What!?” Hathaway was now completely confused. Maddox gave him a look that Tia hoped said, ‘shut up and listen’, but she added, for good measure, without looking up at him,

“Sir, with respect, shut up.” she turned her attention back to Adam, “Come on, I promise we'll go easy on you. You get a real lawyer you'll be out in two, please.”

“I want her out of here,” Hathaway said to Maddox.

Tia stood up and came up to his chin and looked up into his pale eyes, her dark ones burning, not with fury, but righteous anger. “I want you out of here. You are obstructing this investigation; you utterly will not listen to anything we tell you. DI Lemmie is in deadly danger; he is waiting for Hannah Westcott and when she arrives her hotel, he will attempt to arrest her.”

“But she left about an hour ago,” Maddox said, horrified, as she had been interviewing her most of the day two, as a crucial witness to convict her brother. A right chump she’d been then, Hannah had been so convincing of her brother’s perversions and violence since childhood. With both parents’ dead, there was no one to contradict.

“Oh no!” Tia felt sick. She looked at her phone. Still no signal. 

Hathaway looked at his phone, just as Maddox did hers. “No signal?”

“There’s an almighty storm Sir,” Tia said, more polite now he was finally listening, “Most of the masts are out apparently, desk sarg told me.”

“Airwaves?” Maddox asked.

“Different frequencies,” Hathaway replied as Tia said at the same time,

“We haven’t got them. This was a courtesy trip to tell you of the new forensics and suspect, as you weren’t answering the phone. We didn’t think either of us was going to apprehend the killer alone, did we? Joe thought of that on the hoof, as we got here!”

Ignoring a humble DC’s use of first name for her SIO, Hathaway grabbed his jacket and said, “Come on, she won't have had long at her hotel, where is she?”

“Four pillars, out by Wheatley.”

“Right, come on! Maddox, you drive.”

“Sir.”

As they made for the door, Adam asked, “Hey! What do I do?”

“Stay here for a bit, want a coffee?” Maddox said, and gabbed a uniformed officer who was outside the door, “Get him a coffee, don't let him leave, but be nice to him,” 

“It’s alright, we’ll have a chat over coffee and biscuits, won’t we?” Maitland said, walking in. “I’m so sorry we’ve been putting you through the mill. If you feel up to it, after a break, it would be so helpful if you could talk me through you childhood together.”

“Um, sure, I guess,” Adam said, confused. He looked at his solicitor, who looked at Hathaway then to Maitland.

“We won’t be pressing charges. And depending on what you tell us about this brothel, we’ll either hand it on to Vice or not. I couldn’t comment either way at this time. And I am sorry too, Mr Westcott, for being so hard on you. but men have died. Innocent young men.”

Adam nodded tersely.

Maddox smiled, “See you in a bit,” she said to Adam.

At the door, all Tia could think about was Joe’s safety, and she snapped, “Come on Sir! Sarg!”

“It's gonna be a tight, the traffic will be building up,” Maddox pointed out.

“That’s nothing, there’s flooding from Magdalen Bridge all the way up St Clements and the Plain,” Tia told them.

“And the phones are down,” Hathaway added, with a glance heavenwards.

 

*

Joe groaned as he came to, confused for a moment his head aching and feeling so sick with it. Then everything came back to him and he struggled to sit up and found he was tied to the chair he was propped up on. He pulled against them and tried to sit up. He was tied with his arms to the back of the chair and his legs to a front chair leg each with skipping ropes and tights. He rattled the chair, trying to and failing stand up. He muttered a choice swear word under his breath and looked around the room as much as he could.

Hannah was pacing up and down, her hands to held her temples and madly muttering constantly under her breath, a litany of such phrases as, 'I dunno what to do', 'he can't know', 'but I can't kill a copper' 'he doesn't even have black hair', repeatedly to herself. Joe could tell his appearance had completely thrown her, her murders were planned and she hadn’t expected this. She liked to be in control, to keep to her plan, obviously

“Hannah? Look at me.”

“Shush, I'm trying to think!”

“I dunno what you're trying to think about! There is no other option for you; you need to let me go. Hannah, are you listening to me?”

Hannah, obviously panicking, smacked him around the face and yelled, “Shut up!” 

Joe's nose began to bleed but he didn’t stop, he knew he had to calm her down and talk her into giving herself up. The alternative was not an option. “Hannah, please listen to me; why did you do this?”

Hannah curled up on the floor sobbing with her back to the bed, muttered, “Be quiet.”

“Hannah, let us help.”

“I can't, Adam has to pay.”

“But, killing a cop isn't part of the plan, is it?”

“I- I-”

“Come on Hannah, you aren't stupid, you know this won't work.”

“Shut up!” Hannah yelled desperately, standing up and grabbing the bedside lamp. “I'm going to have to kill you now! I'm sorry but I can't see any other way!” and with that she raised her arms to bring the lamp down on Joe's head just as the door crashed open.

Hathaway came rushing in first and just grabbed Hannah by the waist, lifting her off her feet and swinging her about so the lamp was dropped and smashed harmlessly to the floor just behind and to the side of Joe’s head. As she did so, she pulled her elbows back and whacked Hathaway’s nose, and as she realised more what was happening she followed it was a backwards head butt to whoever was holding her and there was a sickening crack as she broke his nose. He cried out in pain and dropped her.

Hannah wasted no time and ran for the door in her socks, not evening grabbing her handbag, but she was stopped by DS Maddox, just blocking the door. Hannah punched Lizzie in the gut put although in pain, and doubling over, Maddox didn’t let go off her at all, but instead managed to handcuff her to the doorframe while beginning to formally arrest her. As she did Tia ran past both of them to Joe. to check him out and start to undo all the various ties holding him to the chair.

 

“SIR! Are you ok? You're bleeding!”

At the same time, Maddox had straightened up, having got her breath back and sorted out the arrestee and looked at her boss, his handkerchief over his nose in a vane attempt to stem the blood. As far as she could see, he was losing a lot more blood that DCI Lemmie. She asked, almost at the same time as Tia Warner made her inquiry,

“Sir? You ok?”

“No I’m not bloody ok!” Hathaway answered, sounding like he had the worst cold in the universe. “Awh fuck I think she's broken my nose!”

“Bit not good,” Lizzie said, going up to him, ignoring Hannah Westcott, who was rattling her handcuffs and shaking the doorframe and swearing. Lizzie estimated uniform were no more than a minute away now and they could shut her up and take her away. 

“No,” Hathaway agreed with a derisive little snort, which he instantly regretted as it sped up the blood flow, “definitely not good.”

Meanwhile, Tia began to untie Joe’s legs, “Sir?” she asked again, looking up at him.

“I’m fine Tee, don't worry! Hell of an headache though!” He flexed his already freed foot and ankle.

“Damn! She's tied you up with, three pairs of tights and two skipping ropes –”

“Two? That means she’d planned two more murders here in Oxford.”

“Yeah, seems likely,” Tia replied, now standing behind him and straggling with the bonds on his hands and arms. “Shoe laces...?”

They both look down at Joe’s shoeless feet. He continued to flex them. “No wonder it was hurting so much, he said, casting a glance around for his sturdy Doc Martens. As he did so, he saw the smashed ceramic lamp all over the floor. “Oops.”

“Better the floor than your head Sir.”

“Seconded.”

Hannah started to wail as the uniformed officers, with instructions from Maddox, began to lead her away, having handcuffed her behind her back. Meanwhile, Hathaway had sat down on the bed, still trying to stem the blood flow. Maddox crosses the room and holds out a hand and pulls him up with some effort. The skinny bastard was heavier than he looked.

“Come on Sir, better get you to A&E.”

 

“Ow! No, I’ll be fine Lizzie.”

“You’d really better get that seen to boss.”

The bleeding starts up in earnest again, “Oh, you think?”

“Come on sir,” she took him by the elbow and began to guide him to the door, “I’m sure Inspector Lewis will see a broken nose as characterful...”

“Out of line Sergeant, not even remotely funny!”

“Sorry Sir,” Lizzie said, not meaning it one bit, and not sounding like she did either. 

 

*

Hannah looked at her hands, curled up in her lap. She had no sense of time 

The Jig Was Up. 

Never.

Her throat was sore; she had screamed it horse when DS Maddox had grabbed her.

“Hi Hannah, I'm Siobhan.” Maitland said as she sat down.

“DCI Siobhan Caitlin Maitland, 62, wife of Leanne Rose Maitland-Jennings. Majored in crimes against woman went on to become Metropolitan Police consultant in serial killers and specialist crimes. Earns 35 grand a month.”

Maitland raised and eyebrow and sat back speedily and replied, “Wow, you certainly do your research!” 

Hannah still didn't look up. There was no point now. It was all over. All ruined. She started tracing a pattern in the dust.

Maitland looked towards the two-way mirror and shrugged.

“I have to, I want to get away with it. Wanted.” She shrugged “Anyway Adam will sack me if I don't all my facts right.”

 

*

In the monitoring room Lizzie looked at Hathaway, his nose packed, dried blood still on his face and shirt and cuffs. “This is her brother right?”

Hathaway put his finger to his lips to shush her, then winced as it hurt.

 

*

 

“Hannah, I know your confused, but I would like to take your statement officially... and I would like to ask you some questions. Is that ok?”

“It'll have to be.” 

Maitland shook her head leaning forward. “No Hannah, it'll only happen if you want it to. Ok?” 

Hannah nodded slightly.

“Right. Do you mind if we start from the beginning?” Maitland asked gently.

“Fine.” Hannah moved suddenly, forward her forearms pressing into the table. “Did you know my brother Julian died when we were 10? He was my twin, my other half. When he died it felt like half of me died that day.”

“I know-”

“NO!” Hannah jumped forward again and pressed her face close to Siobhan's. 

The PC next to the door started but Siobhan gestured for him to stand down.

“No,” she repeated. “No you don't, no one knows what that feels like.” She sat back with a thump. “Mum didn't understand. Adam?” she scoffed. “Adam doesn’t know what real emotion feels like.” She clasped her hands in her lap, withdrawn again. “Adam had never understood.

“When I was ten, my twin died, we had sneaked out, it was midnight, we followed Adam to our local park, he was a few years older and we idolised him. Anyway, it was dark and the swings were covered in dew. Adam was with his friends on the roundabout. It was a red and yellow roundabout, but in the dark, the colours looked darker and yet bleached. Julian wanted to go on the slide, I didn't like the slide, so I was swinging. When I suddenly heard a scream,” she reached up to her temples and pressed, as if she could hear the scream still. “I look over at the slide and... Julian is falling, onto the crumpled metal of the slide and the railings.

“I run over to him, there’s a railing embedded in his side, just here,” she gestured to her left rib, where she had been stabbing people, “Adam and his friends flick away their fags and rush us. They try and move him, but he's... screaming, screaming so loud I think the whole world can hear him. Help will arrive soon! Adam and his friends give up and stop moving him. Adam tells his friends to run and find someone; he says he will run home to mum.

“No one comes, and Julian dies, of lack of blood, drowning in his blood, his... lungs where pierced. It was excruciatingly painful And Adam did nothing!”

““When I was ten, my twin died...!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the bitty nature of this. My daughter really wanted to do this, and is too young to join the com herself, so I agreed to let her sign up and to help her. In was planned on being a much larger and more complex case fic, and one day she might go back and do it, hopefully with my help, as she needed it. But RL has been crueller than usual over the past 4 weeks or so, both in terms of our dreadful health situation, money and all sorts of other calamities in the home. I won't bore you with them all, but I want to share that I was I victim of a post-Brexit hate crime on the bus. I'm English and white, but this nasty piece of work told me after he had dealt with the bleep immigrants and bleep bleep terrorist they were coming after bleep bleep lazy sponging scroungers such as me. I've been called thinks before, and will again, but the violence of him, and the fact he then smirked at me for the whole bus journey and no one else said anything really shook me. I know, compared to the hate people of colour, Europeans and basically anyone with a foreign accent is getting at the moment, it's nothing, but it scared me.
> 
> Also, my daughter is very dyslexic and I shake so badly I hit many a weird key, and I'm so so exhausted with my usual stupid thing, I apologise profusely for the typos. if you spot any that grates, please do let me know nicely and I will ry to edit as soon as I'm well xx


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